What is it about human nature that makes us want the things that others have? I don’t really mean houses or boats (however a red and white 1959 Corvette would be nice). I’m talking about basic things.
For instance when I go to a restaurant, I usually order last, because undoubtedly I will change my mind each time I hear my friends order something different. I even compare our plates of food, wondering to myself if I should have ordered what they had.
Funny thing though - it’s not just humans that are that way. Take my dogs. I learn a lot about people by watching them – seriously.
I have two of them: a 165 pound Newfoundland that is actually a Water Buffalo in dogs clothing, and a 20 pound Westie wanna be. They have their own bowls and eat their breakfast and dinner at the same time, same place, every day. They eat the same exact food. Nothing is magical about the other bowl. It looks the same and undoubtedly tastes the same. But they insist on eating each others food from each others bowl.
Then there’s the water. Our Newfie is a water hog, and he has bowls of water all over the house – heaven forbid he would go about five minutes without water. But he prefers to drink out of the toilet. I guess the water tastes better for some reason. It doesn’t matter that he has clean, fresh water around every corner – it’s the toilet water he wants. I have trained him, more or less, to not drink out of the toilet. He can get rather sloppy, if you get my drift. But even though he knows he’s not supposed to do it, and he knows there is a bowl of fresh water 5 feet away, he sneaks (as much as a 165 pound bull can sneak) into the bathroom and drinks the bowl dry. He has gotten rather bold about it, too. I close the lid, and have taught my other giant being, my husband, to do so too. But the Water Buffalo has learned how to open the lid, drink, and put the lid down. I kid you not. As soon as I video it, it will be on YouTube.
So I figured that I should be a good role model, and therefore have tried to stop lusting after my friends food, wine and red and white Corvette. I have tried to be happy and content with exactly what I have. I’m hoping that by living by example, the Water Buffalo will stop draining the toilets dry.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Politically Correct Dog Walk
So I finally convinced my husband to start exercising. Well, not as in weight lifting and sweating; but a compromise - he’s now taking walks with me.
We have two dogs, so of course a walk should be a no-brainer. Our Newfoundland, Boo, is becoming an old man with hip problems (I told my husband to start moving his body or he’d shortly become much like our old dog) and can’t really take walks anymore. I feel sorry for the old boy; his body is screaming “no”, and his mind is still in puppy hood and is dying to get outside and run – not unlike me and my 50 year old body that still thinks it can fit into jeans from the teenage department. There are a lot of times when the body and mind just don’t match up.
Getting ready for a walk is kind of an ordeal. We have to find the leash for our 2 year old terrier, Charlie, we have to hide Boo’s eyes so he can’t see us taking Charlie without him, we have to change into our sweats and shoes and wear our sunglasses, and we have to make sure we take a plastic bag in case Charlie needs to do his business. I’d say actually we’ve come a long way, because before when I wanted to walk, my husband would wear his jeans, boat shoes, a nice shirt and carry either a glass of wine or a cup of coffee in one hand (depending on the time of day), and his cell phone in the other. Now he finally understands the words “sweat” and “aerobic exercise” – not to mention “quality spousal time”.
The only problem is, I am so grateful that he is finally accompanying us on these walks that I don’t make him “do” anything. I walk the dog and I carry the doggy bag. I correct the dog when he wants to pull my arm out of the socket because he sees a squirrel or, heaven forbid, a cat. I am the one training him to “heal” and “sit” and walk nice on the leash (Charlie, not my husband).
And guess what other job I get to do? I get to pick up any doggie presents Charlie leaves behind. And I get to hold the full bag for the entire walk. What is wrong with this picture? I know that I am grateful that my husband is coming with us, and that he is getting his cardio-vascular workout. And that I have a captive audience to complain to – I mean talk to – for at least a half hour of the day. But really, he needs to start holding his own. Or, to be more specific, he needs to start doing his duty, and holding the doody bag. And Charlie has it down to a science. He waits until we are several blocks away from home to let nature call…too far to turn around and throw the bag away. So it has to be carried for the next half hour. And I’m not sure about your neighborhood, but in our neighborhood, the doggie bag is almost a status symbol. If you are seen walking your dog without a bag, you may as well consider yourself uninvited to the block party. It is considered totally un-cool. I have decided, however, since my husband won’t have a leash or glass of wine or coffee or cell phone in his hand to distract him, he will be the one you will see him coming a block away with his status symbol, florescent blue doggie bag.
What more could I want? I finally have my hearts desire: A healthy, attentive, poop carrying husband. Sometimes it’s just the simple things.
We have two dogs, so of course a walk should be a no-brainer. Our Newfoundland, Boo, is becoming an old man with hip problems (I told my husband to start moving his body or he’d shortly become much like our old dog) and can’t really take walks anymore. I feel sorry for the old boy; his body is screaming “no”, and his mind is still in puppy hood and is dying to get outside and run – not unlike me and my 50 year old body that still thinks it can fit into jeans from the teenage department. There are a lot of times when the body and mind just don’t match up.
Getting ready for a walk is kind of an ordeal. We have to find the leash for our 2 year old terrier, Charlie, we have to hide Boo’s eyes so he can’t see us taking Charlie without him, we have to change into our sweats and shoes and wear our sunglasses, and we have to make sure we take a plastic bag in case Charlie needs to do his business. I’d say actually we’ve come a long way, because before when I wanted to walk, my husband would wear his jeans, boat shoes, a nice shirt and carry either a glass of wine or a cup of coffee in one hand (depending on the time of day), and his cell phone in the other. Now he finally understands the words “sweat” and “aerobic exercise” – not to mention “quality spousal time”.
The only problem is, I am so grateful that he is finally accompanying us on these walks that I don’t make him “do” anything. I walk the dog and I carry the doggy bag. I correct the dog when he wants to pull my arm out of the socket because he sees a squirrel or, heaven forbid, a cat. I am the one training him to “heal” and “sit” and walk nice on the leash (Charlie, not my husband).
And guess what other job I get to do? I get to pick up any doggie presents Charlie leaves behind. And I get to hold the full bag for the entire walk. What is wrong with this picture? I know that I am grateful that my husband is coming with us, and that he is getting his cardio-vascular workout. And that I have a captive audience to complain to – I mean talk to – for at least a half hour of the day. But really, he needs to start holding his own. Or, to be more specific, he needs to start doing his duty, and holding the doody bag. And Charlie has it down to a science. He waits until we are several blocks away from home to let nature call…too far to turn around and throw the bag away. So it has to be carried for the next half hour. And I’m not sure about your neighborhood, but in our neighborhood, the doggie bag is almost a status symbol. If you are seen walking your dog without a bag, you may as well consider yourself uninvited to the block party. It is considered totally un-cool. I have decided, however, since my husband won’t have a leash or glass of wine or coffee or cell phone in his hand to distract him, he will be the one you will see him coming a block away with his status symbol, florescent blue doggie bag.
What more could I want? I finally have my hearts desire: A healthy, attentive, poop carrying husband. Sometimes it’s just the simple things.
The Saga of the Garage Sale - Final Chapter
I watched them load it into the truck…a single tear running down my cheek. That dining room hutch had survived my first marriage, a gift from my parents. And now it was gone, in a single “garage sale moment”.
And so the saga continued. After weeks of preparation and purging, the big day had finally arrived. THE sale. I found out the serious garage-sale-partakers don’t take a late start very lightly.
I was woken up around 8am by a series of horn honks and a few shouts. I pushed my husband hoping he’d take the first duty but to no avail. So I bounded out of bed – if one can bound in slow motion – threw on my sweats, put my hair in a pony tail and ran – well, ok, walked, to the garage. As I watched garage door slowly rise, it revealed several pairs of shoes that I knew I wasn’t selling. The shoes ended up being attached to the feet of some very impatient people – most of them donning fanny packs and knee socks.
I mumbled something incoherent, since I still had not had my coffee, and moved out of the way as they pushed their way into the garage, pawing at my stuff. Now I know why they call it a “rummage” sale. I tried not to take it personally as they passed over table after table of treasures; treasures that had been lovingly piled onto a display that read “Everything on this Table 25¢”. I also had one for 50¢, $1.00 and even 10¢. Piles and piles of junk adorned my garage.
Let me tell you something interesting about human nature. Nothing on the 10¢ table sold. Until I moved it to the 50¢ table…and all of a sudden it had value. I spent all day moving stuff from table to table. It was fun to play with the minds of the repeat visitors. I had one guy look at some stuff, put it down, and walk to his truck. When he glanced back and saw someone else pick up the same stuff, he ran back and grabbed it from their hands yelling it was already sold.
When my husband finally did join me, he almost tripped on the pile of stuff I had laid aside on the steps down to the garage.
“What’s all this stuff?” he said. “Why isn’t it on one of the tables?” I sheepishly told him it was stuff that I couldn’t bear to part with. It was a hard day. There was one incident where I almost tore a pair of little baby shoes out of a woman’s hand. But I swallowed hard and looked the other way as she handed me her change. They were my granddaughters. I told her to give them a good home. That’s also what I told the parents that bought my hutch. They said it was for their young daughter – and they knew she’d love it. I told her that I was glad it was going somewhere nice…I almost felt like we were completing a transaction for an adoption.
But alas, the sale is over, my garage is clean again, and the rest of the stuff will be donated to the Goodwill. And I will use my newfound money to buy more stuff. And so the cycle continues.
And so the saga continued. After weeks of preparation and purging, the big day had finally arrived. THE sale. I found out the serious garage-sale-partakers don’t take a late start very lightly.
I was woken up around 8am by a series of horn honks and a few shouts. I pushed my husband hoping he’d take the first duty but to no avail. So I bounded out of bed – if one can bound in slow motion – threw on my sweats, put my hair in a pony tail and ran – well, ok, walked, to the garage. As I watched garage door slowly rise, it revealed several pairs of shoes that I knew I wasn’t selling. The shoes ended up being attached to the feet of some very impatient people – most of them donning fanny packs and knee socks.
I mumbled something incoherent, since I still had not had my coffee, and moved out of the way as they pushed their way into the garage, pawing at my stuff. Now I know why they call it a “rummage” sale. I tried not to take it personally as they passed over table after table of treasures; treasures that had been lovingly piled onto a display that read “Everything on this Table 25¢”. I also had one for 50¢, $1.00 and even 10¢. Piles and piles of junk adorned my garage.
Let me tell you something interesting about human nature. Nothing on the 10¢ table sold. Until I moved it to the 50¢ table…and all of a sudden it had value. I spent all day moving stuff from table to table. It was fun to play with the minds of the repeat visitors. I had one guy look at some stuff, put it down, and walk to his truck. When he glanced back and saw someone else pick up the same stuff, he ran back and grabbed it from their hands yelling it was already sold.
When my husband finally did join me, he almost tripped on the pile of stuff I had laid aside on the steps down to the garage.
“What’s all this stuff?” he said. “Why isn’t it on one of the tables?” I sheepishly told him it was stuff that I couldn’t bear to part with. It was a hard day. There was one incident where I almost tore a pair of little baby shoes out of a woman’s hand. But I swallowed hard and looked the other way as she handed me her change. They were my granddaughters. I told her to give them a good home. That’s also what I told the parents that bought my hutch. They said it was for their young daughter – and they knew she’d love it. I told her that I was glad it was going somewhere nice…I almost felt like we were completing a transaction for an adoption.
But alas, the sale is over, my garage is clean again, and the rest of the stuff will be donated to the Goodwill. And I will use my newfound money to buy more stuff. And so the cycle continues.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Fighting the War in My Rack
They were pink camouflage, and the words on the front said “Fighting the War in My Rack”. And it had a little pink ribbon in the corner.
We were at a party for a friend. She needed us to rally and so, we all did. In pink t-shirts. Even our guys.
She found out through a routine mammogram that she had to have a mastectomy – possibly a double. And that it was going to happen quickly. She was overwhelmed by it all and was feeling very vulnerable; especially since she found out she had cancer while her husband was out of town.
So we all came, brought food and wine and hugs, and showed her how much we care – and told her that we will do whatever it takes to help her, her husband and her two young kids get through it.
“My doctor says one in eight women get it”, she said as she looked around the table. “You can all thank me; I am ‘the one’ in this group of eight.” Even in the gray light of cancer, she still was a beacon of brightness. Her humor was still intact, her smile showing through her tears.
It’s the fear of the unknown that is getting her down. It is the not knowing how she will look, how she will feel, how she will handle this big change in her life.
Knowing her as I do, I can pretty much guarantee that in a few months, when it’s all finished and she is mending and her rack is new and improved, she will have realized that she needn’t have been so fearful. But for now, fear is what is over-riding the calm.
On the way home, my husband was very silent. He finally reached over and patted my knee and said, “This was quite a learning experience for all of us men. We really didn’t realize how much breast cancer can challenge your femininity. And no matter what, if we tell you it doesn’t matter to us – I guess what we do have to realize is that is does matter to you – to a woman.” He was silent again but then said, “Just do me a favor. Remember that your rack is not why I love you. It does not make the woman that you are.”
He’s quite amazing my husband. And I hope that someday very soon, our friend will discover that we love her no matter what size or shape she is. It’s hard for us to remember that, isn’t it? It’s hard to keep in mind that no matter what hair color, clothing size, age, shape, weight or bra size we are, it’s the beauty inside that truly defines us.
In the meantime, we will all keep Fighting the War on My Rack, and show her that we love her through good times and through bad – and know that thankfully this war – at least for her – will soon be won.
We were at a party for a friend. She needed us to rally and so, we all did. In pink t-shirts. Even our guys.
She found out through a routine mammogram that she had to have a mastectomy – possibly a double. And that it was going to happen quickly. She was overwhelmed by it all and was feeling very vulnerable; especially since she found out she had cancer while her husband was out of town.
So we all came, brought food and wine and hugs, and showed her how much we care – and told her that we will do whatever it takes to help her, her husband and her two young kids get through it.
“My doctor says one in eight women get it”, she said as she looked around the table. “You can all thank me; I am ‘the one’ in this group of eight.” Even in the gray light of cancer, she still was a beacon of brightness. Her humor was still intact, her smile showing through her tears.
It’s the fear of the unknown that is getting her down. It is the not knowing how she will look, how she will feel, how she will handle this big change in her life.
Knowing her as I do, I can pretty much guarantee that in a few months, when it’s all finished and she is mending and her rack is new and improved, she will have realized that she needn’t have been so fearful. But for now, fear is what is over-riding the calm.
On the way home, my husband was very silent. He finally reached over and patted my knee and said, “This was quite a learning experience for all of us men. We really didn’t realize how much breast cancer can challenge your femininity. And no matter what, if we tell you it doesn’t matter to us – I guess what we do have to realize is that is does matter to you – to a woman.” He was silent again but then said, “Just do me a favor. Remember that your rack is not why I love you. It does not make the woman that you are.”
He’s quite amazing my husband. And I hope that someday very soon, our friend will discover that we love her no matter what size or shape she is. It’s hard for us to remember that, isn’t it? It’s hard to keep in mind that no matter what hair color, clothing size, age, shape, weight or bra size we are, it’s the beauty inside that truly defines us.
In the meantime, we will all keep Fighting the War on My Rack, and show her that we love her through good times and through bad – and know that thankfully this war – at least for her – will soon be won.
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